


Sheepskin

by theleaveswant



Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Disabled Character, Community: kink_bingo, Dating, Deaf Character, F/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Romance, Shapeshifting, Siblings, Transformation, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2nd season AU—Diefenbaker is a lycanthrope (human one night a month, wolf the rest of the time) and he's spending this full moon night on a nice, human date with a nice, human girl</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheepskin

**Author's Note:**

> No standard content notes apply, apart from the questionable consent-ethics of Dief lying to Francesca about his identity/species. There's also a somewhat crunchily explicit wolf-to-human transformation scene, and a brief quotation of Duran Duran.
> 
> Answers a prompt left by helens78 on [duesouth_kink](http://duesouth-kink.dreamwidth.org/) (for all your Dreamwidth due South and C6D kinkmeme needs). I wrote this picturing human Dief played by Hugh Dillon of-that-era, mid-30s and slightly soft-edged from heroin abstention (or in Dief's case, less sled-pulling and more donuts) like he was in Hard Core Logo but with his earrings out and no 'hawk, looking something like [this](http://dropd.com/issue/17/HughDillon/). Story also involves a fair bit of animal play, reflective surfaces, and chivalrous/brotherly objections from Fraser and Ray. I did some research on perforated eardrums in dogs and humans in order to try to write Dief's hearing impairment respectfully without ignoring its (inconsistent) presentation on the show, but if I've messed up royally please let me know and I will try to fix it.

Ray whistled as he jogged up the steps to the Canadian consulate to pick up Fraser for the evening, kept whistling as he strutted down the hallway towards his office, and stopped when he heard Fraser's raised voice, and only Fraser's, coming from the other side of the door.

“I want you to know that I think this is a terrible idea, for reasons that really should not need explaining,” Fraser said, sounding more irritated than Ray was used to. “Well, for one thing, 'tying the knot' means something entirely different to her than it does to you.”

Diefenbaker growled indignantly, and Fraser sighed.

“No, you're right, I'm sorry. That was unnecessarily vulgar.”

Ray frowned.

“But you must agree that she is somewhat volatile, and there is the issue of her protective older brother who just happens to be—”

Ray glanced up and caught the Dragon Lady watching him from down the hall with creased brows. He hastily straightened up, knocked twice on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. “Yo, Benny! You talking to the wolf again?”

“Actually, yes, I am, although he appears not to be listening. I wonder if you might be able to talk some sense into him?”

“Me, talk sense to a deaf wolf? It's not really my main area of expertise.”

“No, I understand that, but I was hoping you might be able to share your experience concerning, well, romantic affairs, if you'll pardon the phrase.”

“Diefenbaker's got girl troubles?”

“In a manner of speaking. I am of the opinion that the young lady in question is most unsuitable—well, not the lady herself, you understand, but their courtship. I feel that the match is ill-considered.”

“What, is he in love with a teacup poodle?”

Fraser cleared his throat and licked his lips and Ray narrowed his eyes. The poor guy was seriously worked up over this. “Ah, no, I don't believe relative size to be a significant obstacle.”

“So what is it then?”

Dief whined and put his head on his paws.

“We're not _trying_ to talk about you as if you're not here, but it is difficult to carry on a balanced three-way conversation when one of the participants can't understand what another is saying, even without worrying about sight lines,” Fraser said to the wolf, who grumbled again and stood up. He headed for the door and Fraser followed him, striding ahead and then turning to walk backwards so that Diefenbaker could see his face. Ray trailed along after them. “I'm not surprised that you don't want me to bring him into this but arguably—yes, she is a grown woman, that's exactly the problem.”

“Wait, I'm confused. Who's a grown woman? Is he—” Fraser hemmed and Ray's eyebrows shot up. “Oh, now, that is a new kind of sick!”

“Well, it's a bit more complicated than that,” Fraser said, but his explanation was forestalled by the appearance of Turnbull, apron-clad and carrying an armload of mail.

“Good evening, Constable, Detective. I trust you have each had a pleasant day. Your mail will be on your desk in the morning, Constable; however . . .” With a typically Turnbullian flourish he offered a shiny package to Diefenbaker, who took the box in his mouth and ran off out the door.

“What was that?” Fraser said.

“The boxed assortment of Canadian maple candies that arrived in the mail today. He asked me to order it for him several weeks ago, and said it was very important that he receive it before this evening,” Turnbull said, smiling.

Fraser hummed exasperatedly and walked quickly towards the door with Ray close on his heels but when they stepped outside Diefenbaker was nowhere to be seen.

“You want to tell me what's going on?” Ray asked. Fraser looked at him, then sighed and shook his head.

“You wouldn't believe me if I tried.”

*

Francesca was still laughing as she led him up the steps to her front door, but when they got there she made a shushing motion, pressing a finger to her lips and waving her other hand in front of her so that the keys hanging from her palm jingled together. He imitated her motion with a serious expression and she giggled again, shrilly enough that he could hear it. He muffled the sound with a kiss, which she eagerly reciprocated. He bumped his nose gently against hers when he pulled back.

“Do you, um.” She cleared her throat. “Do you want to come inside for a bit?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I really do.”

He followed her up to her room, gaze locked on the bulge of her calves, cheeks aching with the breadth of his satisfied grin at how well things were going. This date was turning out . . . not normal, but better than—possibly even excellent. No point in being modest: he was good at this. Not that he deserved all the credit, of course. It was Francesca's suggestion that they go to a French movie so they'd both have to read the subtitles, and that they go dancing—although she'd immediately blushed and tried to apologize for that one, they found a club where the bass throbbed loud enough that they could feel the rhythm in their bones, and neither one could hear the other speak.

They came to her bedroom and he softly shut the door while she slipped out of her heels and carried them over to a rack in the closet that ran the length of one wall. The closet's mirrored door panels doubled the apparent space of the room, the neatly made bed piled high with decorative cushions—did she tidy up just for tonight?—and the shelf full of romance novels and self-improvement manuals. He stepped up behind her at the same moment that she slid the door shut, and she jumped a little to catch him reflected there.

“I like this,” he said, stroking the frame of the door panel, looking down into her eyes. She smiled.

“Francesca . . . I told you I'd been thinking about you all month, right? And from the way your eyes sparkled when I said it I'm pretty sure you knew what I meant.” The sparkle returned as her smile widened and her cheeks flushed with colour, and he savoured the sensation of his borrowed jeans growing uncomfortably restrictive.

“Well, then I hope you won't be offended if I tell you that everything I imagined these last weeks dried up the minute I walked in this room.” He felt a flicker of predatory smugness at seeing her smile falter, then pressed on before it waned completely.

“What I mean, Francesca, is that all I can think about since we walked into this room is watching your face in this mirror while I fuck you.” His voice dropped to a growl as he moved in closer, pressing his hard-on into her hip and brushing his lips against her temple. “Would you like that, Francesca? Would you like to be watched?”

She was silent for a long moment, statue-still apart from the rhythmic strain of her breasts against the plunging neckline of her velvet dress. Her smile had faded and her lips were slightly parted, and for a moment he feared he'd pushed too hard, said the wrong thing, crossed an invisible line of Nice American Girl etiquette, and he started to back away, but then her hands were on the back of his neck and she pulled him down into a kiss.

*

“So then I said to him, 'listen, I don't care who your uncle is, you just don't go around'—Are you listening to me?”

“Hm?” Fraser looked up from the thickest of the stack of very thick files that he and Ray were poring over. “Pardon me, Francesca. Please continue.”

“You want me to start from the beginning or pick up where I left off?”

“I, er.”

Fraser blinked adorably and licked his lip, and Francesca would have been happy to go on watching him squirm if Ray hadn't butted in with “Hey, Frannie; how about you put the story-telling on pause and pour me a cup of coffee?”

“Ah, pour it yourself.” She scowled.

“I would, but as slow as you are unpacking you have yet to produce a thermos.”

Francesca rolled her eyes and started pawing through the bag of provisions she'd delivered to sustain her brother and his handsome friend on their eleventh-hour research binge, looking for an excuse to halt an unethical deportation or something, which inconveniently coincided with the breakdown of Fraser's apartment's ancient gas stove. She extended an arm without looking to shoo the wolf away from the already unpacked food, and frowned in confusion when he wasn't there.

“Where's Diefenbaker? He's not around?”

Fraser looked up again, seeming startled. “He's around. He just, um, went outside for a little while.” He coughed.

“Of course, right. Big night for wolf business.” Her grin faded when she caught Fraser's cornered stare, and she pointed out the window. “Because it's a full moon? I thought maybe he had some howling to catch up on.”

Fraser sighed, evidently relieved. “Well, quite.”

“Frannie. Coffee.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses.” She shook her head—Benton was acting even stranger than usual tonight, maybe the moon was getting to him too—and gave the bags another thorough rummaging. She frowned, certain that she'd packed a thermos of coffee. She'd put it right next to the bags as she packed them, and she could clearly picture the last place she'd seen it, sitting where she left it . . . on the kitchen counter, next to the carousel.

“Um. Ray?” She winced. “There is no coffee.”

“What?”

“I forgot the thermos, okay? Bite my head off.”

“Francesca!”

“It's okay, alright? There's a coffee shop down the block, I'll go pick you up a cup to go. That should at least tide you over until I can drive home and bring back the pot I already made.”

“That place is a dump, their coffee's half charcoal.”

“You want me to get you some or not?”

Ray sighed, “yes, thank you,” and Fraser, blushing, ducked his head and tried to pretend he hadn't been watching them argue. She fumed for a moment, wondering why Fraser's trademark chivalry didn't seem to extend to defending her against her brother's criticism, then turned and grabbed her coat.

Plaster dust fell from cracks in the ceiling on both sides of the apartment door when she slammed it and stomped off down the hall, muttering nasty things under her breath as she thrust her arms into her jacket sleeves.

She was still muttering when she stepped into the over-lit diner. She paused on the welcome mat, blinking rapidly as her eyes complained against the sudden onslaught of harsh flourescents. Someone called her name and she turned around, startled to see Fraser reflected fuzzily in the scuffed chrome above the cooktop, sitting in a booth against the window.

She frowned when she spotted him, his hand raised in greeting and icing sugar dusting his cheeks and chin. It wasn't Fraser after all, of course; his face was nothing like, but he had blue eyes and black hair and he looked like he'd stolen Fraser's clothes, the same leather jacket, flannel shirt and faded jean combo she'd seen Fraser in the few times she'd seen him wear casual clothes.

“Do I know you?” she said to the man at the table, who wiped his face on the back of his hand.

“Uh, no, I guess not.” He blushed and bit his tongue, pinching pink flesh between sharp white teeth.

“Then how do you know me?”

“Your brother, um, showed me a picture. Ray. I met him today. I'm a friend of Benton's, from up north. In Canada.” He stood halfway up from the table, holding out a sticky-looking hand for her to shake and smiling. “I'm, uh, John. John George.”

“John George.” Francesca looked at the hand until he lowered it and sat back down. “Fraser never mentioned you were coming.”

“Oh, well, he's busy with a case, maybe he forgot. I said I'd stay out of his hair, anyway, that's why I'm out here. You know, exploring the neighbourhood, sampling the local cuisine.” He tried again to smile as he indicated the half-eaten jelly donut and empty chili bowl on the laminate in front of him, but it was a hesitant, wavering thing. “You know what, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you. I hope you have a good evening.”

Francesca glanced over her shoulder at the coffee station, then back at the Canadian stranger, pouting and covering himself in white powder again as he took another sizeable bite of his donut. Ray could stand to wait a few more minutes for his caffeine fix. Beside, he might not be the tidiest eater, but underneath the mask of sugar he had a reasonably hunky face.

“I'm sorry too. That was rude. You startled me, is all, and I just had this stupid fight with my brother . . .” She held out her hand and stepped up to the table. “Can we try this again?”

His face split into a broad grin and he stood up from the table again, this time scrubbing at his face and hands with a paper napkin before clasping her hand in both of his. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Francesca.” His hands were very warm.

“So, John. What brings you all the way to Chicago?” She slid into the booth opposite him, keeping the skirt of her jacket between her trouser seat and the creaking vinyl.

“Truck,” he said, beaming. “A big truck. I drove it; I am a truck driver.”

“Oh yeah?” Francesca said, tipping her face down to groom an itching eyebrow with her pinkie finger. He reached out and touched the back of her hand gently. She looked up.

“I'm sorry; could you please not cover your face when you talk? I'm kinda deaf,” he explained when her eyes narrowed. “Well, partly. Mostly when it's convenient for me to be.” He grinned. “But I do miss things, though. Sounds, voices. It helps if I can watch someone's mouth, use lip-reading to fill in some of the gaps.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” Francesca practically shouted, her hands twitching spastically with the desire to sign and the awareness that they didn't know how, before he waved at her to stop.

“Normal volume's fine,” he said. “Just try to go slow and clear and don't turn away or cover up your mouth when you're talking to me, and if I need you to repeat something I'll ask. Anyway, it's such a nice mouth, I don't know why you'd want to cover it up anyway.” He grinned again, slowly, this one shy but more than a little wolfish, and Francesca's cheeks prickled with heat as she smiled in return.

*

Her fingernails grazed his scalp as he scooped her up, arms wrapping around her and crumpling her dress. She hooked one leg around his hip and scrabbled at the buttons on his shirt, working it open and pushing it down off his shoulders. He could still taste the affogato on her breath from the cafe they stopped at after the nightclub, and he savoured the sweetness as he investigated her mouth with his tongue. Her lips were soft and smooth and her tongue slid against his, warm and slick. He caressed her throat, stroking the shell of her ear with a thumb pad as the rest of his fingers closed around the hair at the nape of her neck.

He growled his agreement when she moaned against his mouth, and stepped carefully backwards until he found the edge of her bed with his thighs. Turning carefully, he laid her lengthwise across the bed on her back. He took a moment to look down at her as he shook his arms free of the scratchy, smoky flannel and peeled off the thermal shirt he wore underneath it before he climbed up beside her and lay down, propped on one elbow.

“God, you're beautiful,” he said, and laughed fondly at her blush. He rubbed his knuckles against the soft skin of her cheek, brushed hair away from her forehead, and leaned in to kiss her again as his hand explored further down.

He nudged her gold cross out of the hollow of her throat and traced her collarbones with his fingertips, feeling her shiver, then followed her breastbone down between the soft swells to the edge of her dress. He splayed his palm out flat, skimming his whole hand over the black velvet, kneading her breasts and feeling out the curves and planes of her ribs, belly and hips, down to the tops of her thighs. He shifted down her body, moving closer to the edge of the bed, and Francesca rose onto her elbows to watch him.

He shoved up onto his knees, straddling her shins, and pushed both palms up her thighs, against the grain of her tights, feeling the friction of the sheer material on his skin, the way it snagged on the worn skin of his calloused hands. His hands slid under the hem of her dress, the rougher underside of the velvet bumping over his knuckles to pool around the backs of his wrists, material bunching up in waves as he pushed it towards her waist. He found her slip already bunched up around her hipbones between the top of her pantyhose and the covered band of her lace-trimmed panties.

His eyes locked on hers, dark and hungry, as his fingertips found the edge of her tights and started to roll them down.

*

The bell above the door of the diner tinkled but Francesca did not turn to look until her companion's eyes widened and he set down his coffee cup with a clatter. “Benton! What a surprise.”

“It certainly is,” Fraser said, coming around to the edge of their table. “Francesca, we were wondering what'd become of you. Ray's out looking for you now in the Riviera; to be honest, I think he's beginning to fear the worst.”

“Oh jeez,” Francesca looked up at the clock and covered her mouth with her hand. “I completely lost track of time.”

Fraser stepped aside to let her out of the booth, which she did with an apologetic look at the man across the table. “I'm so sorry; I have to go stop my brother from jumping on strangers. It was really nice meeting you, John George, and I hope we get another chance to talk next time you're in Chicago.”

The man smiled and reached out clasp her hand, leaning in to kiss her knuckles. “I'll make sure that we do.”

Fraser watched her straighten her jacket as she left, noting the colour in her cheeks, before he turned back to the man at the table. “What on earth do you think you're doing?”

“Talking.”

“But she doesn't know you talk.” The seated man frowned and gestured out the window at where Francesca and Ray were yelling at each other over the roof of the Riviera. “I mean she doesn't know you're _you_. Does she?”

“No, she doesn't. I told her I'm a long-haul trucker and a buddy of yours from the Yukon.”

“Good. I mean, not good, you shouldn't be talking to her at all, but good that you didn't reveal yourself.”

The man smirked.

“ _Diefenbaker._ ”

“That expression is uncalled for. I was having a conversation with a woman, it's not like I ate your boots.” The human Diefenbaker sighed and started stacking up his dishes. “Chill out, Benton. I talk. She talks. We talked. That's all.”

“You said you were going to see her again.”

Dief shrugged. “I will.”

“Like this.”

“So what?” He reached into the pocket of the jeans he'd borrowed from Fraser for the money he'd also 'borrowed', counting out a generous tip.

“It's not prudent. She knows you in your other form; she might begin to suspect something.” Fraser frowned as Dief pushed past him and out onto the street. He hurried to keep up, straining to stay within Dief's field of vision. “And 'John George'? Really? You should be more careful than that.”

“Come on, nobody outside the consulate is going to put that one together.”

“I forbid you from talking to Francesca again.”

“You forbid me?” Dief scoffed. “You're not my father.”

“I am your owner, legally speaking.”

“According to a forged license.” He rolled his eyes. “Look, Benton, I like her. I want to spend more time with her. I'm not going to do anything to blow my cover, and if I do that's _my_ cover.”

“You can spend time with her as yourself.”

“As myself . . .” Diefenbaker sighed again, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably inside Fraser's jacket. “I need to walk. Tell Francesca and Ray both that I'm sorry for pissing him off by keeping her out so late, and good luck with your research.”

He turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction, away from the apartment, the fog of his breath rising over his shoulders and curling behind him in the cool spring air.

*

The heat of his breath mixed with the heat from her skin as Diefenbaker dipped his head to kiss the insides of her thighs, knees, and juicy calves as he followed her pantyhose down her legs and off her feet. She squirmed when he kissed the arches of her feet, ticklish or embarrassed worrying that they weren't clean.

He followed her smooth legs back up, fingers drawing swooping trails over depilated skin. He looked up for permission before pushing her skirt up the rest of the way, exposing her front from the belly button down. He nuzzled his face against her panties, breathing her scent through the fabric, before he tugged them down over her hips, which she helpfully lifted off the coverlet as she pulled her dress off over her head.

He took a moment to admire the look and smell of her pussy before he dove in to enjoy its taste and feel, noting the sea-shore fragrance, the groomed margins of her bush, and the shape and colour of her lips. Of the admittedly few sets of female human's privates he'd got to see close up, none were identical and all were fascinating.

Her body vibrated slightly with transmitted sound, and he lifted his head and leaned closer to her face. “What was that?”

“I said 'it's been a while since I've done this.'”

“Me too,” he confessed. “If you've got any tips or complaints, just tap me on the shoulder. Or, you know, grab my hair and steer me where you want me.”

Francesca grinned at that and laid a hand on his crown, pushing his leering face back down.

He licked a long stripe up the split of her lips, tasting the rich fluid pooling between them. He repeated the motion, again and again, lapping at her pussy, bathing her skin with his tongue in a way he was rarely allowed to wash any part of a human's anatomy in his other form. He made the most of the opportunity, savouring the tastes and the feeling of running his tongue over warm, yielding, deliciously textured flesh. He buried his nose in the springy nest of her hair, at once coarser and softer than his daytime pelt. Francesca sighed and relaxed into the gentle, leisurely treatment, then gasped when he began to explore the different facilities that this mouth allowed, probing and sucking with his pointed tongue and flexible lips, and paying close attention to her reactions.

He nudged at her slit with his long fingers, spreading her lips wider to draw out more of her salty musk, then tried pushing a finger inside, right up to the knuckle, twisting his palm to face the ceiling and flexing the joints of his finger. Francesca twitched and canted her hips, then yanked on his hair to make him look at her.

“More,” she mouthed, and he happily obliged.

*

“Wait here,” Fraser asked of Ray before he closed the door of the Riviera and sprinted up the stairs to his apartment.

“Diefenbaker,” he said sternly, just in time to close the door before the wolf crouching on the floor in the middle of the room yelped in pain as the transformation began.

He heard the wet gristle crunch of tendons snapping as bones tore apart, moving, shifting, making room for new growth. He watched as Diefenbaker's back grew broader, his shoulders and ribcage compressing ventrally as they grew out laterally. He saw his upper arms stretch longer as his forelimbs bulged with new muscle, the bones of his forepaws twisting and growing, shooting outwards so forcefully they looked about to burst through the skin but never quite achieving it as they splayed into hands, claws melting sideways. Dief's hind legs stiffened into a painful hyperextension as they waited for their proportions to adjust; thighs, shins, and feet popped into bipedal alignment. His tail retracted bone by bone, each vertebra sucking up into his torso as his pelvis widened and flattened to match his chest, and his fur . . . Although he'd watched Dief change many times over the years since they'd found each other, sometimes from very close up, he still wasn't certain whether the thick white hairs that covered his wolf body burrowed back into his skin as he transformed or whether they cooked off, sublimated in the heat he knew Dief's body to be radiating. With great reluctance, Fraser forced himself to look to Dief's face as the transformation concluded, watching his exposed teeth suck back into his jaws as new ones burst through to take their place in a dental arcade reshaped by the cracking, shifting, bulging torment that occurs as each part of his skull snapped into the position dictated by god or nature for the city-building ape called _Homo sapiens_.

Dief slumped on the floor, gulping air like a stranded fish and dribbling bloody spit onto the warped hardwood.

Fraser did not speak.

Eventually Dief's breathing evened out and he blinked, relearning the focus of his human eyes, before pushing up to sitting with a groan.

“Benton,” he said hoarsely.

“That looked like a bad one.”

“They're all bad ones.” Dief pushed up on his feet and hands, belly up like a crab walker, and shoved forward, catching himself on his palms and one knee. He rested there for another moment before rising unsteadily up on his hind legs and teetering, naked, towards the bathroom, his balance growing minutely with every step. Fraser followed him, keeping a body's length of space between them, and lingered in the open doorway while Diefenbaker staggered to the mirror to stare intently at his intermittent face.

Dief turned on the tap and filled his cupped palm with cold water, which he wiped over his face, then repeated the motion twice to rinse out his bloody mouth. He blinked water out of his eyes, turning his face from side to side but keeping his eyes on the mirror.

“Still pretty,” he muttered, scowling faintly. He noticed Fraser watching him from the doorway and grinned disdainfully at his reflection. “What are you looking at?”

“I'd like to ask you again to reconsider.”

“Reconsider what?” Dief opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the electric clippers, ignoring the spark that shot from the outlet beside the sink when he plugged them in. He raised his voice above the strained drone as he began to trim his hair and beard, grooming away the month's growth accrued since his last transformation. “You keep talking to me like you think I haven't thought this through, but believe me, that's not the case. I've thought about it more than you.” He blew hair clippings out of his face and brushed them off his shoulders into the sink and onto the bathroom floor, pointedly ignoring Fraser's tight-lipped irritation. “I don't even understand your objection; you know I'm not contagious. Are you mad because I haven't told her who I am, or because you think I'm going to?”

“Yes,” Fraser said baldly.

Diefenbaker snorted. “What, because you never lie? You might have everyone else swallowing that line, but remember who you're talking to. I know you. And she's not going to figure it out. Nobody ever does, because they don't want to. Their brains won't let them believe it, even when their senses tell them it's true. Besides, I'm good at acting human.” He grinned at Fraser over his shoulder. “Better than you.”

“That's because what I do is not an act. If my performance is flawed, that only proves that it's genuine.”

Diefenbaker's jaw clenched and he paused in the act of putting the clippers away, grip white-knuckle tight, then laughed it off, speaking casually as he set out Fraser's shaving supplies on the edge of the sink and started preparing the lather. “Why are you being such a dick about this?”

“I just don't want either of you to get hurt.”

Dief nodded. “Right, sure, but you're only lecturing me. What's that about?” He shot Fraser a sidelong glance as he lathered up his face and poised the razor to begin cleaning up the stubble the clippers left behind.

“Francesca's a competent young woman; it's not my place to tell her what to do.” Diefenbaker grunted smugly. “Furthermore I worry about what conclusions she might draw from my interference in her personal relationships, in light of her previously expressed interest in me.”

“You think she'd think you were jealous.”

Fraser inclined his head. “I think she'd think she'd achieved her goal, yes.”

Diefenbaker scoffed. “That's not why she's doing this,” he said, then continued under his breath, “not only. Not anymore.”

“Whatever her motivations, I am disappointed in you for taking advantage of her.”

“What—how am I taking advantage? She's going out with me because she wants to and I want to go with her, nobody's being manipulated. Well, except for—but you agree that I can't open up that can of worms.” He rinsed the razor under the tap and grabbed a towel to wipe away any lingering traces of lather.

“You're luring her into bed with false promises.”

“What? Okay, first of all, I don't even know that we're going to—I mean, I certainly hope, but that's only if she wants to. I'm not going to force anything. And secondly, what promises?”

“You've heard her. Francesca is looking for a long-term relationship.” Fraser raised his eyebrows to emphasize the point. “Marriage. A family.”

“Well, yeah, she's looking out for that, but that doesn't mean she thinks I'm it. Besides, I haven't promised her anything, or said anything I didn't mean. I do want to keep dating her, for as long as I'm able, and I wish like hell that time was longer.” After another long moment of scrutinizing his human face and the contortions it was capable of, Diefenbaker abandoned the mirror, pushing past Fraser to get to the dresser. He took his time choosing the best of Fraser's two-week supply of mostly identical boxer shorts. Fraser turned his body to face him, still leaning against the frame of the bathroom door.

“How many decades do you think you have left, Benton? Four, five, maybe even more? And how much longer do you think you'll keep looking like,” he waved a hand vaguely at Fraser's face as he stepped into a pair of his jeans, “that? Hm?”

He looked up at Fraser as he slid Fraser's off-duty belt though the loops on his jeans and buckled it, and Fraser was startled again by how much _him_ there was in those unfamiliar blue eyes.

“I'm only five years old, and I'm already closing in on middle age. I might not live to see the millennium, and that's not even talking about the chance that I might get run over or shot, again. Long-term relationships are a luxury I'm never going to enjoy, not on the scale of human possibility. How long do you think it would take her to notice the rate I'm aging? That one's too weird for even city folk to ignore.” He looked down again to button Fraser's red flannel shirt, permanently impregnated with a faint smell of woodsmoke and sweat, the aromas of humanity. “You think I'm moving too fast with Francesca? I think I don't have any other choice.”

“All the more reason for you end things now, before they go any farther.”

Diefenbaker rolled his eyes and crossed back over to the bathroom, where he helped himself to a dollop of Fraser's pommade and used it, instead of slicking his hair down smooth the way Fraser did, to muss it up until it stood out vertically away from his scalp. Satisfied, he reached for Fraser's toothbrush. “It's not jealousy making you act like this,” he said with his mouth full of toothpaste, then spat and rinsed, wiping his mouth on the same towel he'd used before, “because you have no interest in her. Is it really just prudishness? You might be operating under some apocryphally archaic notion of chivalrous courtship, but I'm not and neither is she.”

“Is it prudish to suggest that a person deserves to choose knowingly whether or not to commit an act of zoophilia?”

“Zooph—” Dief rounded on Fraser, his eyebrows drawn together in indignation. “I can't believe you're still doing this, after everything we've . . . That's the whole problem, isn't it? I'm still just an animal to you. Just a talking dog. I can't possibly want anything from a female except to rut, and I can't possibly get that from a human without lying to her, because no one would ever choose make love with me if she knew.”

Dief balled his hands into fists, then held them in front of his chest, fingers splayed and palms open towards the sky. “This isn't a costume, Benton. It's not some disguise that I put on once a month to cover up the real me. You ought to know by now that I'm as much _me_ now as I am as a wolf. I move differently, act differently, because that's what I have to do to pass, to fit myself into an ecology, but I'm the same being whatever shape my body's in, and that being is never entirely wolf _or_ human.”

He dropped his hands and looked up at the splotched ceiling for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was small. “I thought you understood that, Benton. When you talk to me in my other form, when you understand what I'm saying, you're not speaking wolf. You're speaking me. And I just don't get how we can be so . . . connected, and you still treat me like I'm a fucking pet.”

“I'm sorry,” Fraser said, but Dief wasn't looking in his direction and gave no indication that he'd heard.

“And you know, _that's_ what I like about Francesca,” Dief said, his voice strong and edged with a snarl once again, as he sat on the edge of the bed to tie his boots. “She's normal. She's a nice, normal, human, American girl, who doesn't shape-shift, or talk to ghosts, or lie about her feelings, spend all her time wishing she was somewhere else, or do . . . whatever the hell it is that makes Turnbull Turnbull, and when I'm with her I can be normal too, instead of feeling like I'm living on the Island of Misfit Toys.”

He stood up from the bed and Fraser tried again to apologize, but Dief talked right over him, cocking his head to the side and shrugging into Fraser's cracked leather jacket. “But I guess that's something you wouldn't understand, would you Benton? After all, your performance is genuine.”

Fraser licked his lip, at a loss for what to say. He looked up, meeting Dief's eyes, and quirked his mouth in a self-deprecating smile, trying to communicate how much he wished he could take back some of the things he'd said. Dief nodded, curtly, and headed for the door.

“'Burning the ground, I break from the crowd, I'm on the hunt I'm after you,'” Dief muttered under his breath as he tromped off down the hallway, “'I smell like I sound, I'm lost and I'm found, and I'm hungry like the wolf . . .'”

Fraser went to the window and waited for Diefenbaker to emerge on the street below. He watched him pass the Riviera without a glance on his way to the bus stop, shoulders drawn up and hands in his pockets under the loud and sullen illumination of city streetlights just warming up. With a sigh, Fraser left the mess in the apartment and went back down to the car.

*

“Oh, god, I want you inside me,” Francesca moaned, pulling John up by the back of his head. She kissed him messily, observing that he was still a sloppy eater as she licked the shiny cocktail of his saliva and her lubrication off his chin. He grinned and stood up to unbuckle his belt and shove his jeans and boxers off onto the floor. The socks gave him a bit of trouble, but he was soon free of them too, crawling up the bed on top of her.

“Wait,” she held up a hand to stop him, then rolled over and pushed up onto her hands and knees, turning to face the mirror. She backed up closer to the edge of the bed, and John laughed and nibbled a line down the side of her body as he retreated again to the edge of the bed and stood behind her, his hips between her ankles.

“Is this what you wanted?” she said, mouthing each word clearly so John could read her reflection's lips. He nodded, swept her hair off of one shoulder and kissed her exposed neck. She raised one had to jab her thumb in the direction of the bedside table. “There's a box of condoms at the back of the top drawer.”

It took him a moment to get the package open and the condom on properly, but he figured it out on his own and then leaned back over her. He cupped her chin with one hand while the other slipped between her legs to tease her a little before he lined up his cock to enter her.

The stretch was delicious, even better than she'd imagined, and she let her eyes roll back as she savored the moment, allowing them both to adjust to the feeling before she started to rock her hips back against his. He took the hint and started moving with her, thrusting tentatively at first but building in speed and force until he found a steady rhythm—and then the door exploded.

“Jesus!” Francesca shrieked as John pulled out and staggered away from her, cursing. “Ray?!”

“You get offa her, you animal!” Ray said, advancing with finger stabbing towards John, who was already off and backing up into the corner with a pillow held in front of his body. Francesca saw John's upper lip curl in a fearsome snarl and injected herself between them, grabbing her silk robe from one of the bedposts and pulling it on as she moved.

“What the hell do you think you're doing in my house?” Ray growled at John, and Francesca stamped her foot.

“What the hell do you think you're doing in my room?”

“Fraser told me what this guy's up to.”

“He did?” John said, snarl dropped in favour of a look of abject shock.

“Yeah, you bet he did,” Ray said to John, eyes shooting daggers, then turned his attention to Francesca. “He's changed his delivery route, did he tell you that? No more monthly visits to Chicago. This slimebucket was going to leave you high and dry as soon as he got what he was after.”

Francesca stared at her brother, flabbergasted. “And you thought the rational, appropriate response to this piece of news was to _kick in my bedroom door_ and interrupt my date to tell me? You couldn't sit on it until morning or even, I don't know, knock?”

“He's using you, Frannie!”

“So what!” Francesca exclaimed, slapping her hand against Ray's chest. “Who cares? Maybe I was using him too, didja ever think of that?”

“I didn't—”

“You know, it's nice that you want to look out for me, big brother, and I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but this, Ray,” she gestured around her room and ended with a flourish in the direction of the splintered door frame, “this, is fucking insane. He's not a burglar, or a predator, he's my guest, and I am neither an idiot nor a child. I invited him in here, that was my decision, and I will decide when and under what circumstances he's going to leave.”

“I'm sorry.” Ray stepped back, blushing and withering under the intensity of Francesca's righteous anger.

“Sorry? You have yet to learn the meaning of the word. Now will you please get the hell out of my room and go tell Ma to stop dialing 9-1-1, and leave me to manage my own life like a goddamn grown-up?” Ray mumbled something under his breath but retreated, gingerly pulling the broken door as close to shut behind him as he could. “And you're going to fix that tomorrow!” Francesca shouted, then stared, fuming, at the door with her arms folded in front of her chest, waiting for John to say something.

“Um,” he said quietly, and out of the corner of her eye Francesca could see him stepping hesitantly towards her, his pillow shield hanging limp by his side. “There's something I think I need to tell you.” He paused, licking his lips. “You're probably going to think I'm a lunatic, and you wouldn't be half wrong . . .”

Francesca sighed and turned to face him, her arms thrown up in the air. “Well, it's about time!”

“I'm sorry?”

“You know I was beginning to worry that you weren't going to say anything? And then I'd have had to get _really_ mad.”

“ . . . Say anything about what?” he asked, frowning.

“About being a werewolf.”

His jaw dropped.

“Or a reverse werewolf, or whatever. The point is, I know who you are, Diefenbaker.” She stepped closer and put one hand on his upper arm, using the other to hold closed the sides of her robe.

“But—I—how?”

“I don't know. The way you've been looking at me lately when you're, you know, the other you. The fact that the two of you are never in the same place. The toothmarks on the box of maple candy.” She smiled warmly.

“You knew? This whole time tonight, you knew I wasn't a longhaul truck driver, and you still went to bed with me?”

“Oh, don't get me wrong. I freaked right out when I first put the pieces together. Spent two days in bed wondering what it all meant. I finally thought . . . who cares if he spends his days running around on all fours, wearing a fur coat? There's plenty of guys out there who do worse things, and weirder things, and they don't even have your excuse. When he's human . . . I don't know how to explain it. I like you, John, Diefenbaker, whatever your real name is. We click. And I know this is complicated, but somehow I feel like we have a chance at something real, however strange it might be. I didn't want to chicken out on that.”

Grinning like a goofball he leaned in to kiss her, but she stopped him with a finger on his lips, leaning back far enough for him to see her mouth.

“You're not, like, a secret Canadian prince under a curse or anything, seeking for the kiss of his one true love so he can break the spell and return to reclaim his castle full of riches?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Oh. I was kind of hoping . . . Well, it doesn't matter. We'll figure it out some other way, we'll make it work. How much longer have we got tonight, anyway?”

Dief looked at the clock, counting back from sunrise. “I'd say, a little under three hours before I go back to eating kibble until the night of the next full moon.”

“Well, then we'd better make the most of it.” Francesca grinned and retreated towards the bed. She dropped her robe to the elbow on one side and looked back at him over her bare shoulder. “Come on over here, you big mutt.”


End file.
